


The Life of a Victor

by Letswrite24



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Depression, F/M, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:35:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letswrite24/pseuds/Letswrite24
Summary: “Peeta!”His head turns to me in the doorway. I am thrown back to the train, him in his robe, his eyes shining, his hair tousled. “Stay with me.” I say in a scratchy voice that doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. He shuffles back towards the bed and I feel it dip behind me as he settles in. I turn with difficulty and position my body close to his, resting my head against his shoulder. His arms embrace me, and his nose buries into my hair.“Always.”
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I reread and watched all of the Hunger Games and it is heavy on my mind, so I wanted to write a coming back from their trauma pre-epilogue story to improve my writing. Constructive criticism welcome and I hope you enjoy it! Suzanne Collings gets every bit of credit for her amazing story.

“Peeta,” his blue eyes so full of torment the last time I saw him. The boy with the bread who had been through the games, been tortured, hijacked. The boy who has come back from the brink of death more times than once. His eyes find my grey eyes. “Yeah?” He showed up this morning with a fresh loaf of bread tucked under his arm. I don’t know what to say, because what can I say? “Why 12?” I manage as we stare at each other from opposite seats. “It’s our home, my home.” His brows furrow and he struggles to say the words, and I wonder at that moment what is happening inside his head. The confusion clouds his features as he stares at the bread, our home. We eat in silence, it’s not uncomfortable.

This Peeta isn’t the Peeta from the first games, or even the second. This Peeta is more distorted and broken. I understand it better than anyone else. The nightmares, the constant anxiety. Sometimes I find myself glancing around the room waiting for a mutt to attack me, or a canon to sound. We will never heal from the games, not fully. We will never heal from the war, and Peeta from the hijacking and brutality of the capital. The burn scars peek out from the collar of his shirt, and there are scars down his arms. Think pink ones on his cheekbone. I know I have many myself that will never heal. I bite into the warm bread and drink him in. After so long apart, just looking at him lessens the constant fear building in my gut. 

Plutarch’s words come to me again, “I’m sorry so much burden fell on you, I know you’ll never escape it.” I realize in that moment, how much burden fell on Peeta, too. He went through as much as me, sometimes more. He didn’t have to be the Mockingjay, but he had to endure the capitol and tell their version amidst torture sessions. I feel the tears pricking my eyes and I fight them off. It takes more energy than I thought to stand and discard the plates in the sink. Peeta dries them after I wash them. His fingers brush mine as he reaches to take the plate from my hands, and we look at eachother. “I’m so sorry, Peeta,” I choke out, my guilt for his treatment in the Capitol, how I treated him in unit 451. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for Katniss,” Peeta grabs my hand in earnest, having discarded the plate onto the counter. It feels like a lifetime since the beach, and the rooftop of the tribute center. His arms find me, strong as they always were, maybe less sure, but still warm. Still Peeta. If he feels the tears soaking his shirt, he doesn’t say anything. We are both healing from the past forced upon us by Snow. He’s dead now, and we will never be reaped again, but Plutarch was right; we will never escape it. We can only learn to live with what happened. 

We sit in the doorway watching the rain fall for a long time. Our knees pressed together, our gaze directed towards the other houses in the Victor’s Village. For a moment I don’t see the face of every person I killed flash in my head everytime I close my eyes. I just see the imprints of Peeta’s blue eyes. We don’t speak a lot in the first week of his return. We busy ourselves with cleaning, him with painting, me with hunting. Haymitch comes a few times that week for supper, usually with a bottle of liquor in his hand. Peeta’s first flashback happens in the late afternoon. The clank of a knife on the counter is what does it. His hands grip tightly to the edges of the sink, and I see his back becoming rigid. 

“My name is Peeta Mellark, I am from district 12. I was in the hunger games, I survived. I am home. I am not in the capital. This isn’t real.” It's a mantra that he repeats for a few minutes. His voice faltering as it did when he walked towards unit 451 in the capitol. I cautiously place my hand on his black and whisper in a soothing tone, “You’re safe, Peeta, you’re home.” His head whips back to look at me and his eyes are clouded and fearful. “They can’t hurt you anymore,” I tell him, and he nods, his blonde locks falling over his forehead. It gives him a childish look almost, and my heart breaks for him. I will never know the full extent of what they did to him, so with gentle hands I turn his body towards me, and wrap my arms around his neck. It takes mere moments before his arms encase me. His face buries into my hair, and I hear him repeating my words, “They can’t hurt you anymore,” The air hangs heavy between us and we stay like that for awhile. Helping each other through the bad thoughts that will plague us forever.  
__

It’s harder to get out of bed sometimes. I find myself curling under the covers, blocking out any and all sunlight. Buttercup settled himself on the opposite pillow last night. I discovered his orange fur after waking from another nightmare. Prim was calling to me. I tried to run to her, but I was blown back by the explosion. As I laid there in the center of the Capitol staring into the smoky sky, I saw their faces in the ash. The face of every tribute from our first games, the face of every victor from the Quell. I saw the face of everyone I killed looking back at me. Screaming at me. “You did this to us, Katniss,” their voices mixed into one. Cinna, Wiress, Marvel, Cato, Finnick, Glimmer, Gloss, Mags, the female Morphling, every faceless peacekeeper, the children, and Prim. “I’m sorry, Prim!” I try to get through to her, but her face morphs into something distorted. Blood falls in thick droplets encasing me. 

“You promised you’d protect me, Katniss,” Prim spits with venom, and I struggle to get to my feet, but the fire burning around me makes it impossible, “Prim no! Primrose please don’t go!” but her face has vanished into the smoke along with the other. I am staring at President Snow and Peeta in the smoke now. Peeta is thin and tortured again. His blue eyes are filled with malice. “Mockingjay.” Snow seethes, his deadly stare piercing me from above. “You were no rebel, just a seam mutt, killing everything, and everyone in your path. Even your own sister.” It’s not just Snow speaking, his voice is mingled with Peeta’s. The tears sting my eyes, and I want so badly to fire an arrow through it, but I can’t move. “Peeta,” I want to scream his name, but it comes out muted and gargled. His hands are on my throat before I can process what’s happening. That’s when I wake up, it’s dark in the room, and my chest is heaving. I can feel the tears streaming freely down my cheeks. I had killed them all; it wasn’t a lie. I was responsible for their deaths even if I did not deliver the killing blow on all. 

I lie there listening to the sound of the cat’s even breathing until the sun rises. The faces from my dreams almost cloud my vision the entire time. I don’t move for anything; too consumed with my grief for losing Prim, for losing Finnick, and my overwhelming guilt. For all the children that died. That died because I was the Mockingjay. Coin is dead. The country thinks I have lost my mind. Prim is dead. Gale is gone. Peeta is broken. I am broken. 

Peeta comes in the late afternoon calling my name. I don’t answer. My eyes are swollen from crying, and my body shakes even though I am not cold. I ache everywhere even after months of physical healing. The burns still itch, and the scars still hurt. It would be hard to find a part of me the Capitol did not damage. I can hear the clunk of his artificial leg ascending the stairs, and then the blanket is peeled off of me, and I see his curious blue eyes scanning the condition I am in. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, like a click of his tongue. I don’t say anything. “Do you want to talk about it, Katniss?” He asks me, and I shake my head indicating that I really do not want to relive it. He runs his fingers through my matted black hair, and tucks me into the covers. “I’ll make us some dinner, okay? You can eat it here if you want, but you have to eat it. I think tomorrow you should talk to Dr. Aurelius. He can’t help if you don’t answer the phone, Katniss.” He brushes his thumb under my cheek to wipe away the excess moisture. I lean into his palm and he keeps it there for a moment. “They really did a number on us, didn’t they.” I nod. 

He gets up after a few moments to head back downstairs. I suddenly feel more panicked, and with all the strength I can muster, I call out to him, “Peeta!” His head turns to me in the doorway. I am thrown back to the train, him in his robe, his eyes shining, his hair tousled. “Stay with me.” I say in a scratchy voice that doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. He shuffles back towards the bed and I feel it dip behind me as he settles in. I turn with difficulty and position my body close to his, resting my head against his shoulder. His arms embrace me, and his nose buries into my hair.  
“Always.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding the link to the song Katniss sings   
> https://youtu.be/P_-cup7aXMQ  
> I picked this song, because I feel like it settles with her trauma. More Peeta, Haymitch, and even Effie are coming. It is a slow build, because I really wanted to show the trauma that what they have gone through really effects them. Sometimes it's easy to forget how young they were. I really hope you guys like it. Again constructive criticism is welcome and Suzanne Collings gets every ounce of credit! thank you for reading.

I’m climbing high, chasing the clouds. One foot after the other, gripping tightly to the branches as I go. I’m high above the ground, and I keep going. I push myself further, finding fewer and fewer foot places in the deeply scared oak. The weight of my game bag pulls on my shoulder like a small anchor. I can hear myself breathing agitated. It’s the most physical activity I’ve done since returning to twelve. Finally, I emerge through the canopy. I can see the surrounding trees. As far as I can see is lush greenery, and deep browns. The sky is a dazzling blue. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. For a moment I feel something almost like inner peace. It’s a fleeting moment, but I drink it in. The sound of the wind blowing through the thickets of forest. The sound of the birds singing. It drowns out the screaming I hear in my head all the time. The begging and pleading for mercy where no mercy was found. I stay for a long while, drinking in the sight before me, and that's when I see it perching on a branch a few yards away. A mockingjay.

My throat catches on a choked sound. The black wings flutter as it digs through the feather on its wings with it’s beak. I feel the cold prickle down my spine. I think back to when Madge gave me the mockingjay pin before the first games. The pin that started the rebellion. I think of the wedding dress that burned on stage. The wings spread wide on my arms showing my defiance, and Cinna’s to the people of the Capitol. I remember Cinna’s face as the peacekeepers beat him in front of me. It feels as if a lifetime has passed, but yet it could be yesterday for how clear it is in my mind. I wrap my arms around the trunk of the tree, and press my forehead into the bark.

It’s cool and scratchy against my face. It grounds me for a moment. The slight pain blooming in my forehead, the smell of the earth. I breathe deeply, once, twice, and then I glance back to the tree with the mockingjay. It’s gone, and the weight lifts momentarily. I take the time to clamber down the tree. I’ve been doing it all my life, it’s muscle memory at this point. When my feet touch the earth, I grab the bow leaning against the great tree. The sheath of arrows goes over my back, and I walk slowly, cautiously through the trees, keeping my eye out for dinner. I walk for another half an hour before I see it. It’s in a small clearing, a rabbit. I pull an arrow slowly, silently from my back and position it on the string of the bow. It draws back, touching my nose slightly as I take aim. I breathe out, and let it fly. It hits it’s target immediately.

The rabbit falls dead. I approach it and pull the arrow out. The blood spurts from the wound and I am transported. I see Coin lying dead, I hear Snow’s insane laugh as blood spurts from his mouth. I see the nightlock pill, and Peeta’s face as I scream at him. I see Rue’s small body, the wound from the spear, and her face as I sing her to sleep for the last time. I see her big brown eyes close for the last time. I pinch my arm harshly trying to fend off the visions. I grab the rabbit and head towards the lake. The lake holds its own memories. It’s a short walk and I deposit the rabbit near the water’s edge, and seat myself on the grass. My hands are shaking from the visions haunting me, but I push them aside, and grab the hunting knife from my belt. I start skinning the creature, and the words to a song I heard my father and some of the miners singing one night at our kitchen table. I was no more than 8, but I remember the words clearly.

_“I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,_

_And I fear no evil, Because I’m blind to it all._

_And my mind, and my gun, they comfort me.”_

I work the skin off the animal, my voice shaking, and the mockingjay’s above start to pick up to tune slowly. I can hear the whistled tune coming back through the clearing, and I pause to rinse the blood off my hands for a moment, shuddering.

_“‘Cause I know I’ll kill my enemies when they come._

_Surely goodness and mercy will follow me, all the days of my life._

_And I will dwell on this earth forevermore._

_Said I walk beside the still waters, and they restore my soul._

_But I can’t walk on the path of the right, because I’m wrong.”_

My voice carries the tune out of the clearing and to the tops of the trees, and the birds stop to listen. I remember Peeta’s words, and how they stopped when my father sang as well. I feel more confidence at the thought of it. I think of how the words didn’t mean much when I first heard them, but now they mean so much more. I had seen true evil. I had seen destruction. I had known pain so badly that it was unbearable.

_“Well I came upon a man at the top of a hill._

_Called himself the savior of the human race,_

_Said he’d come to save the world from destruction and pain._

_But I said how can you save the world from itself?”_

The birds are singing a whistling tune now. It matches my voice, and as I submerge the rabbit into the water, I see Wiress in the water, a cloud of red surrounding her still body. I choke and blink hard, I need to finish this. I need to be grounded, so I sing again.

_“Cause I walk through the valley of the shadow of death_

_And I fear no evil, because I’m blind._

_Oh, and I walk beside the still waters and they, Restore my soul,_

_But I know when I die, my soul is damned._

_But I know when I die, my soul is damned.”_

I finish the song with a choke, and the tears well in my eyes and as I am packing the rabbit into my bag, they carry the song. It echoes through the forest as I walk. It takes about an hour to get back to the village, and when I do I see Peeta has drug Haymitch out of his house and is forcing him to feed the Geese he keeps now. It makes me smile. Peeta is standing with his hands on his hips, looking on like the leader he is. Peeta has always kept us three going, and I know I owe him more than I could ever give him for that.

He looks at me as I approach, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead. His shirt is dirty, no doubt from planting something or other in the garden, and baking in the morning. He looks stronger than he did when he arrived at twelve. I walk to him and stand watching Haymitch curse and throw grain at the noisy geese. He won’t admit that he likes it, but we hear him talking to them at night when he is deep in the bottle. I laugh at his grumbling, and Peeta smiles at me. That Peeta smile that dazzles everyone around him.

“How’d the hunting go?” he asks, cocking his head to the side, I pat the back on my side, “I got a rabbit for dinner, clean and ready to go. You gonna join us Haymitch?” I call to him. He shoots me one of his Haymitch looks and grumbles something that sounds like, “let me check my schedule, Sweetheart,” to me, and I shake my head. I still get mad at Haymitch for not taking Peeta over me, but I know that he might be the only one besides me who loves Peeta close to the amount I do. Even though neither of us say that outloud. We are a lot alike in the way we express emotion. It’s difficult, but the three of us are a team. Effie too, but she’s away at the Capitol living her best wigged and mahogany lifestyle. She still calls often, and sometimes I answer.

“I will make us some bread and dessert, since you are so kind to supply the main course.” Peeta says, and running his tan fingers through his mess of blonde hair covering his forehead. It’s not all styled up like he had it when we were in the camera light for so long. I like it like this. It’s more imperfect, but somehow still looks flawless. I think it’s just because it’s Peeta. The sun has kissed his skin, and his blue eyes aren’t clouded with pain in the moment. No matter how the Capitol broke him, and scared him. The games took his leg, the scars that litter his body. He is still beautiful. He isn’t the same sixteen year old tribute anymore. His features are aged, from the toil of the last years have made. I know they aged us all probably ten years. Our bodies are no longer without flaw, but slowly it will be okay. People have started to come back to twelve, and Thom who is a leader in rebuilding this district from the rubble, has taken residence in one of the empty victor houses. None of us mind, we don’t feel a claim to them. It’s still difficult to go into town, but Peeta wants to help as much as he can. I know he feels guilty, even though he doesn’t deserve too.

The new government promises to send in rebuilders, and fun to the citizens of twelve. Paylor is definitely better than Coin, or Snow, but I can’t bring myself to trust. I feel an arm wrap around my waist, and it’s Peeta’s. I can feel his warmth radiating. I look at him, and he stares out over Victor's Village. His touch is so familiar that I don’t push away. “I was thinking, you know?” he breaks the silent, cutting through the warm air between us, “Yeah? What were you thinking about?” He smiles a tight smile before answering, “I was thinking about tearing down the gate and taking the Victor sign away. We don’t need a reminder of what they forced on us.” I nod, and feel the weight of his words settle. “I think that’s a great idea.” At this moment I envy Peeta’s outlook. So much has happened to us, but he gives me hope that it will get better. Peeta never stops looking forward, and that’s why they loved him. Peeta is the light that can’t be put out, and it envelopes everyone around him. This boy with the bread, who would put everyone above himself. He is too good for this world, and I hope someday the world is good enough for him.


End file.
